Con Brio
by Mingsmommy
Summary: The notes rose, one sliding on top of the other and Gil closed his eyes, letting the music surround him, lift him, and carry him back through time." Grissom/Sara implied. A birthday fic IOU for Printdust...previously posted at lastficstanding.


Dislaimer: None of the characters contained herein belong to me

**Dislaimer: **None of the characters contained herein belong to me.

**A/N:** Originally posted for the Last Fanfic Author Standing Drabble Challenge. The original idea was conceived for Printdust's birthday fic, but the lfas prompt ran off with it. This is Printdust's birthday story IOU.

Happy Birthday, Robyn.

* * *

The applause died off shortly after the cellist seated himself, leaving the auditorium mostly silent save for the rustle of paper programs and silk dresses along with the occasional throat clearing cough. Then bow met strings, hands and fingers moved and the first compelling strains of the Prelude for _Six Suites for Unaccompanied Cello_flew up and grabbed the air, bursting forth into the space with vibration, sound and beauty.

The Las Vegas Philharmonic was still young, just finishing its ninth season, but having played for major casino openings and accompanied big name stars, it had achieved artistic credibility in that short amount of time. Sara had given Grissom season tickets for his last birthday and he had enjoyed the concerts immensely; he had been especially eager for this one. The young cellist currently playing with the Philharmonic was being hailed as the next Yo Yo Ma and Grissom had to agree he was exceptionally talented.

The notes rose, one sliding on top of the other and Gil closed his eyes, letting the music surround him, lift him, and carry him back through time.

His father had played the cello; and before her otosclerosis had taken her hearing, his mother had played the violin and the piano. It was how the scientist and the artist had met; a mutual, musically inclined friend had formed a string quartet in grad school to play cocktail parties and small venues for a little extra cash. The elder Grissom had relayed to his young son how the two didn't think too much of each other at first. Music was art to one, math to the other. Yet, following a rather vehement and lengthy argument over an interpretation of Bach's _Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D major_ at a rehearsal on a Friday night they had somehow ended the same weekend engaged to be married.

Young Gil's early childhood had been filled with music: Bach, Brahms, Mozart, Vivaldi. A baby grand dominated their living room, barely leaving room for other furniture. Not deterred, the couple opened the French doors that led to the back yard and purchased extra patio furniture. Their friends would sit, three to a chaise or crowded on the steps and talk and laugh and listen, sculptor alongside biologist, starving painter alongside Department Chair. The smell of the nearby ocean and candles placed around the perimeter of the patio added a festive dimension to the evenings of music and life.

His mother's favorite photograph was taken one of those nights: the piano surrounded by smiling adults, some holding drinks, others holding hands and in the center of the piano, a round cheeked, curly haired toddler Gil fast asleep, cheek pressed to the shining ebony lid, blanket hugged tightly against his chest, knees drawn up beneath him, bottom in the air.

Even when her hearing began deteriorating, Mary Grissom continued to play until she couldn't hear any of the notes. Her husband tried to stop playing when she did, but she wouldn't allow it. Some forty-five years later Grissom still remembered that conversation.

"_Guy, I married a musician, not a martyr." Her voice was too loud; she had picked up American Sign Language very quickly, but had not managed to find the correct gauge for regulating the volume of her speech. _

"_I'm a scientist, not a musician or a martyr." He had spoken quickly but his signs were slower and much more hesitant than hers. "I played to make money at first; later, I played to play with you. I don't have your artistic soul."_

_Patiently, she waited for him to finish finger spelling 'soul;' there were still huge gaps in both of their sign vocabularies. "Don't be silly, you're every bit as much of an artist as I am." _

_He watched as she carefully unpacked the cello he had just packed away to send to storage. "I beg to differ, my dear. I am a botanist with a passable talent in music."_

_Gently, she placed the instrument back on its stand. "You study the beauty of God's world and art is beauty. Flowers are God's art. Really, Guy, what is more beautiful than a flower?"_

_He stilled her hands and pulled her flush against his body, enunciating carefully so she could read his lips; she was still struggling to acquire that particular skill. "Your eyes." He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his lips twitching against a smile at her blush. Then he leaned in to kiss her lips._

_Gil covered his eyes when his parents' lips met, thinking only one thing, __**Gross.**_

_Breaking the kiss, Mary smiled at her husband. "You are my hero and the delight of my heart, but the cello stays."_

_Again, Guy kissed his wife's hands. "I don't want to play without you."_

_Smiling tenderly, she cupped his face in her hands, making sure he was looking at her. She spoke softly, "You won't be playing without me; you'll be playing __**for**__ me." _

_Slowly, she led him to the chair and handed him his cello reverently. Sighing, Guy retrieved the bow and positioned himself to play. Kneeling beside him, Mary pressed her cheek against the polished maple side of the instrument. Gently, she tapped his leg and he began to play, changing his position to accommodate her presence. _

_Young Gil watched her eyes slide closed and a beatific smile illuminate her face as the music filled the house and he understood even though his mother could no longer hear the music she would always feel it._

His father never played with anyone else again and when Gil adamantly refused piano lessons, the baby grand was hauled away, making room for two sofas, a coffee table and a television. But the cello remained.

Guy's favorite thing to play was Bach's _Six_ _Suites for Unaccompanied Cello_; he would tell his son about the heart and soul of the piece, the variations, the oceanic depth of emotion, the use of vibrato and ornamentation. Gil grasped very little of what his father was saying, but he loved to watch his long fingers move against the neck of the cello and hear the sounds that issued forth from string and bow, man and instrument.

When Guy died, Mary had laid the pernambuco bow in the coffin alongside him and kissed him one final time. But the cello remained in the living room of their home until Mary died forty years later. Now, it rested in the closet of Grissom's spare bedroom, alongside boxes of Sara's old textbooks and a rather varied collection vinyl 45s. He occasionally thought about selling it or donating it, but the memory of his mother's blissful face pressed against the side while his father's hands wrought the vibrations that had become her only music prevented him from letting it go.

The more mournful tones of the Prelude to the _Second Suite_ began just as the scent of jasmine reached his nose. He opened his eyes in time to see Sara slide into the seat next to him. He blinked once and then, again. He leaned close to her, inhaling deeply. "You made it," he whispered and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Sorry, I'm late," she whispered back. "The plane was delayed getting off the ground."

A rather irate, "Shhh!" from the row behind them caused them both to start guiltily. Biting her lip, she shrugged apologetically but he merely smiled.

Lacing his fingers with hers, he brought her hand to his lips for a quick kiss; then he closed his eyes again and felt the music.


End file.
